


Rebuild

by athena_crikey



Category: Jak and Daxter
Genre: Gen, Post-Jak II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-19
Updated: 2018-08-19
Packaged: 2019-06-29 18:42:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15735189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/athena_crikey/pseuds/athena_crikey
Summary: "I’m one thing right now that you can’t do without: I’m the only person in this city outside yourselves who gives a damn about what happens to any of you." The night Praxis falls, Torn keeps the Krimzon Guard from collapsing.





	Rebuild

Torn sits at the corner of the bar sipping Krew’s watered-down beer while the party goes on around him, the young fighters dancing in the cramped room to blaring music and the older rebels sitting nearby drinking the hard alcohol brought out by Tess from the back. Daxter topples off the bar early on, and by midnight neither Jak or the blue-haired mechanic are steady on their feet. 

He stays long enough to satisfy Ashelin, who danced earlier in the night but is now trying to drink Sig under the table. She’s drunk enough that she won’t notice his disappearance, but sober enough that he has no fears of leaving her – in any case, she’s with the safest guards in the city tonight. 

The same can’t be said of anyone else in Haven.

Torn slips out into the cold night air a little past midnight. Most of the lights are dark, either smashed or without power, but enough small fires still burn that the city is wreathed in a warm glow. The air is thick with ashes and the chemical reek of melting metal. The harbour, the least inhabited district in the city, is almost silent. But even from here he can hear the quiet hum of noise – the distant cheers of a city finally freed from tyranny and terror.

Torn hops on the transport he and Ashelin took to get here, revving it as he takes off to test the power. It took some hard hits earlier, but the engine still has a lot to give, and he cuts a clean path through the dark road as he speeds off towards the city centre. Towards the Krimzon Guard headquarters.

Tonight, the majority of the city is celebrating its freedom. He passes too many parties spilling out into the streets to count; the bazaar is one huge festival of music and dancing, the suburbs covered in flags and banners. Everywhere people are dancing and singing and laughing. Almost all of them, with one very obvious exception.

Nowhere to be seen are the Guard. There is no sign of red or yellow armour, of facemasks or gauntlets or tattoos. And in the darkest alleys Torn hears angry voices and blasters. He doesn’t stop; he’s one man, and his own face marks him. Instead he presses his foot to the floor and slices through the city without slowing. 

There are no lights outside the Guard’s headquarters. It makes it all the easier to spot the red pinpricks on top of the building, the tiny glowing targeting sights of many rifles. Torn ditches his transport and walks straight up to the main door in a firm stride: he knows how this will go.

The security lights flash on with incredible brightness after the dim night to blind him when he’s hardly two yards from the door, cutting out a sharp white circle on the dark pavement around him and burning his shadow into the concrete. He looks directly up at where he knows the sniper’s nest to be, beside the high-powered spotlight. “Open the damn door. I’m alone.”

There’s a pause, in which he doesn’t blink his stinging eyes but keeps staring right at the men he knows are there. Then the light goes out, leaving him blinder than before, and there’s the sound of a heavy door opening. Torn walks into the long corridor, more by memory than sight.

There are more than a thousand Guards in the city, or were when he left. Probably there were significantly more before the final Metal Head assault, but yesterday was bloody; the ranks will be thinner now. Still, the tiled corridor is filled with Guards, some standing with their weapons trained on the door, but most lying down. Some are sleeping, some wounded, some drunk. The air is stale, and the eerie silence of the building tells Torn most of the electrical systems are out. The lights are back-ups, little blue-tinged battery-powered things that give the hallway a strange, ethereal glow.

In the quiet, he hears the murmur his entrance causes pass down the hall in front of him like a wave. On the floor some Guards sit up on their own, others are kicked into wakefulness. 

“You’ve got two choices,” he tells them, in a voice not much louder than his usual one. “You can listen to me, or you can face the mob that will be on your doorstep tomorrow alone. Right now, I’m the only man in this city who will lift a finger to save your lives. If you want to see the sunset tomorrow, get your asses to the auditorium.” He marches straight down between them, empty handed, without looking at anyone. Some of them jump to get out of his way, others refuse to move – he walks around them. No one raises a hand to stop him, though, and behind him he hears the rest of the sleepers being woken.

The Guard have many mustering areas, but the largest is the auditorium. It’s build to hold a thousand seated, but it can cram in almost twice that standing. Right now it’s filled with men and women, mostly asleep or sitting staring in blank despair. The lights are brighter here, drawing dark shadows under the slumped bodies to make a strange mosaic pattern on the floor.

Torn walks between them without bothering to talk to them; the wave of noise is following him. By the time he’s reached the far end of the room the Guard are getting to their feet behind him, flooding in from not just the main corridor but the rest of the building as well.

There are no permanent structures in the auditorium, and nothing is set up in it now. A few chairs are clustered at the far end in no apparent order; he grabs one by the back and pulls it to the centre of the wall. Jumps up on it and turns.

The huge auditorium is packed with standing Guards. Most are still wearing at least some of their armour, but it’s a very mixed bag – almost all are missing at least one piece, a few are wearing none at all. He’s never seen them looking so disorganized, never seen so many naked faces. This isn’t the Guard he left. But then, he isn’t the same captain who left it. 

“You know who I am. Five hours ago, Ashelin Praxis named me the new Commander of the Krimzon Guard. Her authority is not confirmed, and I’m not speaking to you under that title. For the past five years, I’ve been the head of the Underground. The Underground is dead, and I’m not speaking to you from that role, either. Seven years ago, I was a captain in the Krimzon Guard. I abandoned the Guard after the failed attack on the Holy Grounds, and was stripped of that title. 

“Right now, I’m nobody. I have no official power in Haven City, and no official title. Neither do any of you. Praxis’ regime is finished; Praxis and Erol are dead. You all know as well as I do: right now, anyone in this city wearing tats is a walking target. Every one of us in this room, everyone man and woman wearing our marks is a murderer and a torturer in the eyes of the city. I won’t say they’re right, but I won’t say they’re wrong either. We know what we did, and we know what we turned a blind eye to.”

Torn pauses to swallow, throat dry and burning. “I said I’m nobody, but that’s not true. I’m one thing right now that you can’t do without: I’m the only person in this city outside yourselves who gives a damn about what happens to any of you. I don’t want to see you killed for the uniforms you wear and the ink in your skin. I don’t want to see this city tear itself to pieces more than it has already. We’ve fought ourselves for long enough.”

Around him the Guards are watching, a silent mass. There are some nods, but plenty of dark faces. After all, the more tolerant Guards are always the first to get a knife in the back. Torn raises his chin, and projects more confidence.

“And we’ve got bigger problems. The metal head boss may be dead, but the city walls are still breached and there are plenty more of them out there. There are rebels out in the wastelands who would love to loot this city dry now that our underside is showing. And this city has spawned plenty of mean bastards in the lean years just itching to raise hell. We need the Guard now than ever – an upright, accountable Guard.”

There are murmurings at that, the room humming like a hive, but he can’t make out any individual comments. He gives them a few seconds, then continues.

“I’d like to say you’re all free to make your own decisions, but we all know what one of us does, all of us did in the eyes of the city. Someday, that will be different – someday, we will be individuals, not a faceless army. But until then, the good behaviour of every one of us is our only shield, our only chance at life. That means if you’re not with us, you’re against us. So I’m giving everyone in this room a choice, the only one I can give you. You can join the new Guard, help rebuild our reputation, our city, our home. Or you can leave Haven City.”

The crowd breaks into a shouting, jeering mass. Some wave tasers and rifles, others just their fists. Torn looks over them, hands on his hips a clear inch from his pistols, and considers. A moment later he snaps around in a full spin, leg whipping out and catching the chair beside him. It goes flying into the crowd with a clatter, and comes down with an even louder one. It’s enough to catch the room’s attention.

“Or maybe you’ve all got a better idea? Let’s hear it, then. Because the way I see it, you’ve had it pretty bad for a long time. You signed up to protect this city, protect your families and friends. Praxis turned you into murderers and thieves and goons, took your honour, your integrity, your lives. Maybe some of you liked it, maybe you wanted it. But I know most of the heartless, blood-thirsty bastards in the Guard, and I don’t see them here tonight. Maybe they’re out there partying, but I’m betting most of them are lying in the gutter with knives in their backs, and I doubt anyone’s going to check which side got them. The people I see here tonight are the ones who kept fighting after the walls fell, even after Praxis fell.

“If you want my help, stay and listen. If not, now’s the time to get the hell out of Haven.”

He likes to think it’s the crooked ones who leave, who turn their back on their comrades and the city and storm out to disappear into the night, and whatever future awaits them. But truthfully there’s no way to know, not after so many years of the Baron’s reign. The number who turn and leave, shouldering their way noisily through the crowd, isn’t huge, but it’s not insignificant either. 

Torn waits for the hubbub to die down in the wake of their departure. He looks around at the front of the room and sees two captains he knew from the old days – straight shooters, both of them. 

“ _All right_ ,” he shouts, when he’s had enough of waiting. The crowd quiets down and turns its attention back to him; with the trouble-makers out of the way, silence falls much more quickly. “We have no choice but to start tonight, so we will. Here’s the first change: no more anonymity. No more masks, no more numbers. From today forward we are accountable to our actions – you are accountable to me, I report to Ashelin Praxis, and she is accountable to the people. No guard will wear a mask again in this city, so you’d better get used to seeing unfiltered daylight. 

“We need to know who’s with us. When I’m done here, I want you to give your names to Captains Shrouder and Silver; they’re in charge of forming temporary units. I don’t care who you used to report to, I don’t care what your old patrol was. We start new from today. But no one leaves on assignment until Ashelin Praxis announces the changes in the Guard.”

“And when the rest of the city marches on us?” demands a face towards the back of the crowd. 

“I’ll be there to deal with it. We’re vulnerable until order is restored and the citizens know they’re safe. Which means none of us are going to be on the street until we’re ordered out. I want you to stay inside and rest – you’ll need it for the days ahead.”

“And where will you be?” asks another voice.

“Waiting for the mob,” answers Torn.

  
***

He leaves the auditorium alone, the guards slowly lining up to sign in with the two captains he named. He walks through the winding corridors and up the stairs to the roof.

As expected there are three men sitting up there. All three carry rifles. 

“I’m your new Commander. Go down to the auditorium and stay there,” he says. 

None of them move.

“What about the door?” asks one of them eventually, lowering his rifle.

“I’ll be watching that.”

  
***

He wedges the front doors open so that a faded light pours out onto the doorsteps. He takes a seat on the top-most stair, hands hanging between his knees, and waits. The occasional citizen hurries by, looking at him fearfully before continuing on.

Then one slips forward from the shadows to stand a few yards away and waits, silently. One becomes two, then three, then ten, and then twenty. 

The crowd gathers slowly, and silently. Some carry torches, some bats or metal pipes. It’s not an organized mob, but it’s a mob nonetheless. As the sky begins to lighten it grows larger and larger, word spreading across the city that the Guard has disappeared, that now is the time to take back the city, to depose their persecutors. 

The crowd begins to mutter, muscles being flexed and missiles hefted. When Torn judges it’s only seconds before someone throws something he stands. On the stairs he’s head and shoulders taller than the large crowd; he can see that it stretches out to fill the large open space before the Guard HQ.

“My name is Torn,” he begins. The crowd continues murmuring, but it’s quiet enough that by shouting his voice carries. “Five years ago, I was a captain in the guard.” The murmuring grows louder; torches are raised. “I quit the guard when I realized I could no longer do good as part of it. I joined the Underground. Under the Shadow, I’ve fought for Haven City’s freedom for the past five years. I’ve come back to the Krimzon Guard now because it’s time for accountability. It’s time for change. It’s time for a Guard that protects Haven, rather than fights against it. That’s my mission.”

The crowd yells and jeers, hurling accusations like stones:

“The Krimzon Guard is corrupt!”

“They’re thieves and murderers!”

“Destroy the Guard!”

“ _Listen_ ,” bellows Torn, and for a moment the shouting dies down. “Haven City is free – for now. But we’re not safe. The Metal Heads, the Wastelanders – they’re both threats waiting to take advantage of our weakness. We need trained fighters, now more than ever. If you disband the Guard, who will protect Haven City?”

“We will!” shouts someone. 

Torn zeroes in on them. “You’ll band together in a force a thousand strong to march out against the Metal Heads with tasers and armor that only takes two dark eco blasts? You’ll patrol Dead Town and the pumping station and the edge of the Wasteland? You’ll deal with the bastards cunning enough to sneak into the city, and fast enough to evade the outlying patrols? And you’ll do it all without any formal training?”

The crowd shifts angrily. Now might not be a moment for hard truths, but if not now Torn doesn’t know when they’ll have the chance. If the mob wins out, it’s the end of the Krimzon Guard, and likely of Haven City. 

“How can we trust you?” shouts a shadowed face in the crowd. 

“Will you trust me?” asks an elderly, wavering voice from the crowd. Men and women part to allow an old man with a stick through their midst – The Shadow. Or at least, his future self. 

Torn steps aside as the old man climbs the stairs, making space for him. 

“I began this fight a long time ago,” says the old man, as the crowd falls silent. “I fought from the shadows, and that’s the name you gave me. Torn here has been my right arm, protecting the city and striking down injustice. He is strong, vigilant, and fair. We need a Guard that will fight for us, not against us. I believe he can lead that Guard.”

Torn steps forward. “Starting today, there will be no more masks. No more intimidation. No more bribes and beatings and violence. That’s my promise to you. If I cannot fulfill it, I will disband the Krimzon Guard.” He waits to see the reaction. People are turning to each other and murmuring, the sound of their uncertainty like a breeze rustling through leaves. “You trusted me when my face was on wanted posters. You helped me, you turned a blind eye, you sheltered the Underground when we needed it. Trust me now.”

“We trust the Shadow,” shouts someone in the crowd. A faint cheer goes up.

“We trust the Underground,” bellows someone else; a louder cheer goes up. 

“Baron Praxis is dead,” says Torn, when it has died down. “The Underground has taken back our city. If you’ll have us, we’ll lead the defense against the Metal Heads, at the head of the new Guard. Will you have us?”

The crowd gives a prolonged, echoing cheer. 

“Then I’ll do my best by you. We all will.” He waits for a moment; no more questions are forthcoming. Already at the edges of the crowd people are starting to disband. Dawn’s light is licking at the edge of the square, illuminating the damage done to the city. Damage that needs to be repaired. “We all have a lot of work to do. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll start on mine.”

He turns slowly, showing the crowd his unarmed back. It makes the hairs rise on his neck, but he gives them the chance to take a shot. 

No one does.

Inside, he slowly closes the door and leans against it, eyes closed. 

“Commander?” asks a curious voice. 

Torn opens his eyes to see guards in the hall watching him. There’s not a mask to be seen among them. 

“Come on,” he says, striking out down the hall. “We’d better get started.”

END


End file.
